Lions in the Desert
by crazylittleelf
Summary: Filler scene for "Fracture."


The air was dry and hot, like it never was in Boston, welcome in the way it burned his lungs and warmed him from the inside out. Peter swore he'd felt the climate change on the plane, long before they'd touched down. It was a shift in the world around him that felt vaguely like coming home, more like stepping back into a lion's den. The two weren't terribly dissimilar in his experience. Lion's lurked everywhere, following him from the shadows.

The taxi had brought them near to their target and they wove their way through the crowded streets, closing the remaining distance on foot. The _souk_ was a riot of sound and color, overflowing with people. As they moved through the crowd, Peter caught fragments of conversation, more in Arabic than anything else in this part of the city, though he heard snatches of Kurdish and Farsi, too. His eyes flicked over the crowd, over the vendors and their customers, over the familiar scene on a street he'd followed hundreds of times that now felt alien and displaced. He was the thing displaced, though, in this home that wasn't his any more.

He darted his eyes to Olivia, her mane hidden beneath the pale _hijab_ that complimented her pale eyes. Her cheeks were pinking in the sun. He searched for the old resentment that she had pulled him from this place, this chosen home of his, but it had long ago fled. Her gait was uneven, fingers clenched around the handle of the cane as if she were moments from flinging it away. She had shifted restlessly on the plane, and his query about pain medication had been met with a flat stare. His response had been resigned. It was a dance they'd perfected since her release from the hospital. She was a pro at refusing help, and he supposed it was pointless to fight with her over he nature. Still, he hated seeing her brow crease and her eyes dull under the weight of the pain. He was thankful for the press of the crowd that hindered their progress, forcing them to a slower pace than she would set for herself.

The mask of non-expression that was so often on her face was slipping a bit, threatening to fall completely as they moved though the market. Her eyes flicked from one stand to another, lingering on the baskets of fruit, brass urns, pirated DVDs. She half-turned towards a group of boys clustered around a TV, shouting at a football game, slapping each other's shoulders and pointing at the screen. They passed a stall filled with silk scarves fluttering in the faint breeze and the line of her mouth softened and her eyes lit up. The fingers of her free hand twitched towards a scarf before she curled her fingers in towards her palm and stayed her fist against her thigh. The scarf was a rich purplish-red, the color of pomegranates, tiny threads of gold laced though it. It was miles removed from the drab gray of her chosen armor. He filed it away as something she would love, but he'd never buy for her because it would tip his hand too far.

Still, a smile tugged at his mouth, softened the ever-present frown. Something gave him away and she turned to meet his gaze, startled, then defensive, caught with her guard down and none too pleased. She settled into something that wasn't quite a glare, something businesslike and guarded, the mask she used to convince herself she wasn't breaking.

"So who's your contact?"

Peter flicked his eyes towards her and considered his answer, looked for the balance between the truth and what he was willing to admit. He knew his past stalked him, and here on its home turf it waited to strike, to take him by the throat and pull him to ground. Before, this would have meant a lonely death, bleeding out at the feet of his enemies on the dun-colored dust that coated the street. Now, though, he wasn't alone. She might be disappointed to have her suspicions of him confirmed, but this lion of his was just as deadly as the ones that lurked, and just as willing to draw blood in his defense.

"He's an engineer. We worked together when I was here before." Not even a lie, that, only a sin of omission that the raise of her eyebrow indicated was blatantly clear. His eyes were drawn to the gash on her brow, bisecting the pale line. Fear clutched at his chest, an unfamiliar terror that thrummed with after-images of her limp body lying in the street, of her too-pale face in a dim hospital room. He forced a quick smile to his face. "Ahmed's a good guy. He's local. Good at finding people."

She 'hmmm'd' at him over that, eyes searching his face for the things he wasn't telling her, the half-truths that dogged his steps. He didn't tell her that Ahmed would not be happy to see him. She'd catch on to that quick enough. He didn't tell her that were he willing to lay bare his soul to his former-friend, Ahmed would sympathize all too well with the terror of a woman lying in the street, still and bloody, that he would understand the aching helplessness of dark hospital hallways. He didn't tell her that the odds that Ahmed wanted him dead were not in his favor, although Ahmed probably wouldn't try to kill him. He might be wrong about that, in which case Olivia's presence would help keep him alive. He thought that Ahmed wouldn't resort to violence, though Peter wasn't exactly willing to let Olivia go wandering off in the market to prove it. She was, after all, the one with the gun.

He paused across the street from the _maqhah_, watched the shadows that surrounded the door before turning back to her. The regard of her flat hazel eyes was too much, though, and he couldn't hold her gaze, dropped his eyes back to her hand where it rested on the cane. There was a bruise over the knuckles of her index and middle fingers, smudged along the back of her hand. He bit back a sigh and forced a grin to his face, the charming one he used to put her at ease. He motioned towards the door and crossed the street without looking back at her. She followed, her presence at his back reassuring as they ducked into the shadows together.


End file.
